Lucky

Chapter 24

Ethan

Lucky is on the shower floor.

Naked. Folded into herself. Skin flushed so red it looks painful. Water hammers her from above, too hot—boiling-hot, and she doesn’t move, doesn’t react, doesn’t even seem to know she’s there.

Christ, Lucky.

I don’t hesitate for even a heartbeat.

I’m in the shower fully clothed, grabbing the tap and shutting off the water. The stream cuts instantly, leaving only the sound of her ragged, uneven breaths.

I crouch and slide my arms under her, lifting her gently but urgently, her soaked skin burning my hands.

“Hey,” I murmur, voice breaking despite the control I’m trying to hold onto. “Sweetheart. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

She’s limp and barely conscious.

I carry her out of the stall, through the steam-filled room, back into the cooler air of her bedroom. I kneel beside the bed and lay her down carefully, reaching for the nearest towel to wrap around her shoulders, then another for her legs, covering her trembling body.

I sit beside her, one hand smoothing damp hair from her forehead, the other gripping the towel so tightly my knuckles ache.

“Lucky…”

My voice is barely a whisper now, thick and rough.

“You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Her eyes flutter, just barely. A small, broken sound catches in her throat. Not a word. Not even a sob. Just… pain. The kind that’s lived in her too long.

I lean closer.

“Lucky. Look at me.”

Her gaze skims past me, unfocused, like she’s still trapped somewhere inside her mind. Somewhere, he put her. Somewhere she couldn’t escape.

“No,” I breathe, cupping the side of her face gently—gentler than I’ve ever touched anything in my life. “Come back. I need you here.”

Her skin is hot. Too hot.

I pull the towel tighter around her and check her arms first. They're angry red from the scalding water, but no blistering. Thank God. Then her legs. Her shoulders. Everywhere, bright and raw from scrubbing.

Christ.

What the hell did she do to herself trying to get clean?

My chest twists so sharply it’s almost physical pain.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not even sure what for. For not staying. For not seeing this coming. For leaving her alone last night of all bloody nights.

Her fingers twitch beneath the towel—just once. Like she heard me. Like she’s trying to answer but can’t.

“You’re safe now,” I tell her again, voice low and steady. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She shivers. Hard. The shock hits her now that the heat is gone.

I move quickly, grab her duvet, pull it down, and lift her just enough to slide her onto the sheets. Her wet hair sticks to her cheek, and I brush it back with my knuckles. She closes her eyes at the touch, small lines of tension still etched between her brows.

“Lucky,” I murmur, leaning in so she can’t mistake who’s here, who’s holding her, who isn’t the monster in her memory. “It’s Ethan. You’re with me. You’re not alone.”

She swallows—tiny, tight—and a tear slides from the corner of her eye, disappearing into the pillow.

That one kills me.

Because she didn’t cry when I carried her. Didn’t cry when I turned off the water. Didn’t cry when she was curled on that shower floor.

She cries only when she realizes someone stayed.

“Hey,” I say softly, my thumb brushing her cheek. “I’ve got you. I promise you’re okay.”

Another broken sound escapes her, closer to a sob this time, but she tries to swallow it down like she’s ashamed of it.

“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t hold it in. Not with me.”

Her fingers finally move—lifting, wavering—before they curl into my shirt near my chest. A desperate, instinctive clutch.

As if she’s still falling and I’m the only solid thing left in her world.

My breath leaves me in a hard exhale.

“Good girl,” I murmur. “Hold on.”

She’s half-conscious, trembling, drifting in and out of something dark and deep and terrifying, but she holds onto me anyway. And that—God, that—unravels something in me I haven’t let unravel since Mara.

I push the thought away like a knife.

Focus. Her. Only her.

Her lips tremble. “E–Ethan?”

Barely audible. Barely formed. But it hits me like a fist.

“I’m here,” I answer instantly, leaning closer so she doesn’t have to search for me. “I’m right here.”

She tries to breathe, but her chest jerks, too tight, too fast—panic rising again.

“Hey, look at me,” I say, lowering my voice, grounding it. “Count with me. Just like this. In…”

I inhale slowly, exaggerated so she can hear it.

“…and out.”

Her breaths stutter. But she tries.

“In… and out. That’s it.”

I brush my thumb along her jaw, keeping her anchored.

“Stay with me, Lucky. I’ve got you. Nothing’s going to happen to you while I’m here.”

Her breathing evens just enough for her body to loosen under my hands. Not relaxed. But less rigid. Less trapped.

And as her fingers tighten slightly in my shirt, something dark and cold settles inside my chest. Not fear this time.

Resolve.

War.

No one will ever reduce her to this again.

Her breathing evens out enough that the panic stops clawing at her chest. She blinks—slow, groggy—lifting her head from the pillow. The towel slips slightly, and I adjust it without thinking, keeping her covered.

Then her eyes drift past me.

To the duffel bag on the bed.

Open. Half-packed. Clothes spilling out like she abandoned the task mid-panic.

Everything inside me freezes.

She wasn’t just spiraling.

She was going to run.

“Lucky…” I start, but she pushes her palms to the mattress and forces herself upright, wincing as the movement pulls at her overheated skin.

“I—” Her voice cracks. She swallows again. “I don’t… I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry. I’m—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” I say immediately, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “It’s the stress. Everything you’re carrying. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

She goes still beneath my touch.

Then she pulls away.

“You should go, Ethan.”

My jaw tightens. “I’m not leaving you like this.”

“It’s better if you do.”

“Better for who?” I ask, voice sharper than I intend. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like you’re pushing me out to protect yourself.”

Her eyes flash—anger, fear, both. “I don’t need protecting.”

“No?” I gesture at the duffel. “That's why you were about to bolt in the middle of the fuckin’ day?”

She stiffens.

Yeah. That hits.

“Don’t,” she whispers.

“Then tell me the truth.”

Silence stretches tight between us.

I break it.

“I know who you are.”

Her head snaps toward me, panic flaring so fast I see it hit her like a physical blow.

“I know about Lucky Pink,” I continue quietly. “Rebel June. The tours. The tabs. The meltdown. The weeks of trying to disappear.” I take a breath. “And I know about him.”

Her whole body goes rigid.

“No.” A whisper. A warning. A plea.

“Yes,” I answer softly. “I know what he did to you. I know he’s out.”

She shakes her head violently, tears spilling over before she can stop them. “Ethan, stop.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I don’t owe you anything!” she snaps, voice cracking. “I can take care of myself.”

“By running?” My voice turns cold. Sharper than I intend, but I don’t stop. “By climbing in a car and disappearing before sunset? That’s your grand plan?”

“It’s kept me alive.”

“Barely,” I bite out.

She recoils like I struck her.

Instant regret burns, but I push through it because I’ve spent years watching people self-destruct out of fear and calling it survival.

“Were you planning on telling me?” I ask, quieter now. “At any point? Or were we just—”

“A mistake,” she cuts in, voice trembling but defiant. “Sleeping with you was a mistake.”

The words hit harder than they should. Right square in the chest.

She sees it—and doubles down, because hurting me is easier than letting me in.

“You’re a nobody,” she says, chin lifting. “Just some small-town… handyman with a hero complex. I don’t need you. I don’t want you. And I sure as hell don’t want your pity.”

I stare at her for a long, dark moment.

Then I exhale slowly, jaw tight.

“Right,” I say. “There she is.”

Her brows knit. “There, who is?”

“The celebrity brat,” I answer icily. “The one who burns down everything good before it can be taken from her.”

She flinches.

Good.

Not because I want to hurt her.

But because it means I hit the truth.

I step back from the bed, every movement contained, deliberate—because if I stay any closer, I’ll say things I can’t take back.

“You want me gone?” I say quietly. “Fine.”

Her mouth trembles, but she lifts her chin.

I nod at the duffel bag. “Keep packing. You’ve already ruined everything that could’ve been.”

She closes her eyes like the words stab straight into her, and the sight guts me. I hate myself for causing that kind of flinch, for being the one who put that look on her face. But I still turn away. Because she pushed. And this time—I let myself fall back.

I walk out of the room with steps that feel heavier than they should be, fury and helplessness grinding against each other inside my ribs.

I know damn well this isn’t her. This is fear talking.

Trauma talking. Years of being hunted, talking.

But none of that changes the brutal truth echoing through my chest: I don’t know how to save someone who won’t let herself be saved.

I make it halfway down the stairs before the anger hits me full force. Not at her—Christ, never at her. At the situation. At the fear. The way trauma teaches people to swing at the hand reaching for them, to fight the very thing trying to help.

Outside, the warm air wraps around me as I step onto the porch. I shut her door gently behind me. Not a slam. Never a slam. Just a soft click that feels like defeat.

I just need distance.

Because if I’d stayed another minute, my temper would’ve met her panic, and that’s a collision no one walks away from.

I stand on her porch, jaw grinding, chest tight, rain starting to spit against the wood rails. I drag a hand over my face, forcing breath into lungs that don’t want to work properly.

She thinks I’m leaving her.

She thinks pushing me away will keep her safe.

She has no idea who the hell she’s talking to.

I step off the porch and walk, slow and deliberate, down the path toward my own place. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight, my pulse a low, dark thrum.

I can’t help someone who refuses my help.

But I sure as hell can eliminate the threat that’s hunting her.

By the time I reach the shadow of my house, something in me has already snapped into place—the old part, the dangerous part, the part built for tracking and ending men who hurt people.

I pull my phone from my back pocket and scroll until I find the name I haven’t used in almost a decade.

Sam Mercer.

The bastard answers on the first ring, like he’s been waiting.

“Maddox?” he drawls. “Jesus, man. I thought you were dead.”

“Not yet,” I say, voice flat, dark. “You working these days or still rotting on a beach somewhere?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“I’ve got a mission.”

A beat of silence.

Then, warmer: “What kind of mission?”

I stare at Lucky’s house through the trees — lights off, curtains drawn, a fortress built by terror.

“The kind we used to be good at,” I say quietly. “Hunting. A private hunt.”

Sam whistles low, a sound threaded with recognition. “Target?”

My teeth press together, my jaw tightening until it aches. “Sex offender.”

There’s a pause—long enough for the old ghosts to rise between us. The kind of silence men like us understand without filling: shared scars, shared choices, shared consequences.

When Sam speaks again, his tone has dropped into something steadier, more dangerous. “Victim?”

I turn, looking back at Lucky’s house. The curtains pulled tight like she’s barricading herself from the world. The duffel bag was left open on her bed, half-packed, like she tried to run mid-breakdown. The last trembling breath she took before collapsing on that shower floor.

All of it slams into me at once.

“My responsibility,” I say. The words leave me low and final, as if they’ve always been there, waiting for shape.

Another beat.

“Understood,” Sam replies. “Send me everything.”

A rustle on the line. Then: “Ethan. You back in the game, or just dipping your toes?”

“Neither.”

My gaze shifts again to the house—small, dark, silent. The place she locked herself inside because she thinks she’s safer alone. My jaw turns to steel.

“I’m eliminating a threat.”

A short hum. Calculating. “To you?”

“No.” My pulse thuds, heavy and dark. “To someone who doesn’t realize she matters.”

There’s no hesitation this time. “You still at the lake house?”

“Yeah.”

A slow exhale slips out of him, a sound of acceptance, of readiness. “I’ll be there by dawn.”

The call ends with a soft click.

I slide the phone into my pocket and stand in the wet quiet, the late afternoon air thick on my skin. Lucky’s place sits like a sealed-off confession, windows shut tight, lights off, her fear soaked into the walls.

She can push me out.

She can throw words like knives.

She can run, hide, shut down, pretend she doesn’t need anyone.

None of it changes a damn thing.

Because while she’s upstairs tearing herself apart, shaking so hard she can barely breathe—I’m going to make sure the man who put that terror in her never comes near her again.

Not while I’m alive.